


when the past isn't passed

by novoaa1



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst and Humor, Avengers Family, BAMF Wanda Maximoff, Established Relationship, F/F, Leviathan - Freeform, Mother Hen Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, POV Natasha Romanov, POV Wanda Maximoff, Peter Parker is a Mess, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Steve Rogers, Protective Team, Red Room (Marvel), Russia, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Team Dynamics, Team as Family, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Uhm, because it allll starts and ends with russia, because its them, but we love him, the avengers are trying to get their shit together but its hard, they go save natasha and fuck stuff up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-06-03 19:57:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19471072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: Natasha's past comes back in a bad way.Luckily, she has a family of adorably protective superheroes to back her up.





	1. 10 hours: wanda

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arra/gifts).



> this came from a prompt by ao3 user Arra - not quite finished (obviously), but i've begun the second part and i have a rough idea on how the story's gonna turn out... 
> 
> so anyways 
> 
> hope you enjoy:)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha's gone, and they need to get her back. 
> 
> They gather at the Tower to figure things out—though, in typical 'Avengers' fashion, their impromptu planning session doesn't go all that well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so... this story might take a little bit between each update, just because when i write a plot that's more serious-ish and focuses on super-secret mission stuff, it takes a bit longer to have a comprehensive storyline and just in general to write it well enough that i'm satisfied with how it turns out
> 
> that said, i'm actually really into writing this idea at the moment, so hopefully, it won't be too long before i update

It’s been 10 hours—Natasha’s been gone for _10 hours_ , and already, Wanda thinks she’s in danger of, quite literally, losing her _fucking_ mind. 

Steve keeps telling her to be positive, babbling relentlessly on about how the fact that they caught this “so early” is something to celebrate in and of itself, and maybe violently hex-blasting him clear through the roof of Avengers Tower in a fit of supernatural rage was a tad much on her part, but really— _“Be positive”_ ?

_That’s_ what he has to say to her? 

And, granted, yes, he did sort of, kind of, _maybe_ have a point—10 hours is a fairly good reaction time as far as out-of-the-blue abductions on ridiculously skilled superhero ex-assassins go (because Wanda and Natasha had had a date 10 hours ago that Natasha never showed up for, and they were well enough into their relationship that Natasha had _promised_ she wouldn’t run anymore)… But, still. Natasha is gone, and Wanda thinks she can literally feel her heart ripping itself to shreds, and Natasha is _gone_ —understandably, there’s really not much else Wanda can manage to think. 

The only shred of solace to be found is within the fact that Wanda knows for a fact that Natasha’s not dead—she can feel her presence, can feel her heart beating strongly from wherever she is, can feel her brilliant mind working at a truly dizzying pace like it always does. 

Unfortunately, that’s where her neuro-electric powers hit a wall and render themselves bloody useless, because, yes, she can see and experience things through Natasha’s vision on a whim, but really, there’s nothing there to see—a darkened and pungent-smelling room, a rusty metal door bolted shut before her, the cracked cement flooring stained generously with what looks to be dried blood, Natasha’s bloodied thighs and ankles bound to one another with a nauseating combination of chains and barbed wire. She feels a distinct throbbing in her side, too, where a moderately deep stab wound smarts terribly beneath Natasha's ribcage… but, beyond that, nothing. 

There’s no defining characteristics, no big glowing sign that reads, _“Hello! Welcome to ___________”_ —and, on top of that, the kidnappers have yet to show themselves, thereby giving Wanda not a single clue as to where the _hell_ Natasha could be. 

Worse, Wanda can _feel_ Natasha actively trying to push her out of her brain, can hear her telling Wanda not to come after her, making every moment Wanda stays waiting and watching inside Natasha’s brain a borderline painful affair. 

“What’s she saying?” Tony prods suddenly, ripping her from her frustrated thoughts—they’re gathered, all of them (sans Clint—he’s with Laura and the kids), down in Tony’s lab, with FRIDAY running diagnostic scans and reviewing footage of the abduction on the multitude of high-tech screens behind them. 

(Thankfully, Steve was unhurt during Wanda’s outburst—one of the many perks of being a super soldier, she supposed—but she’d apologized anyhow, refusing to shrivel under the disapproving glare she got in response from the Captain, even when combined with an endlessly indignant Tony borderline shrieking about the million-dollar repairs he’d have to effect on the Tower because of her. 

Unsurprisingly, he was fairly quick to accept her apology, because Steve Rogers was just that infuriatingly _nice_ —the big blonde super-powered teddy bear had even given her a _hug_ , for Christ’s sake. 

And now, he's here, too, gathered solemnly in a loose circle with the rest of them, the only evidence of their earlier altercation being a faint mark of soot tracing his left cheek that no one else has bothered themselves with mentioning.)

Taking a deep breath to steady herself (or else she fears she might hex-blast Tony into space, thereby earning another aggrandizing lecture from one Steve Rogers), she turns to face him, forcing herself to bite back the tears that threaten to fall. “She’s saying, she doesn’t want us to go after her.”

Tony snorts, tapping absentmindedly upon the glowing blueish arc-reactor in his chest, its triangular core faintly visible through the thin fabric of his black long-sleeved V-neck. “Fat chance.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Of _course_ she said th—"

“But, we’re still going after her, right?” Bruce (dressed in his trademark pressed button-up and jeans) asks frantically, turning his wide-eyed and puppy-like gaze upon a stoic-looking Steve. 

Steve nods curtly at that, and Wanda’s chest pulses with relief (even though she’d gladly go it alone had the rest of them refused their help). “Of cou—"

“We must help Lady Natasha,” Thor thunders decisively from his position leaned lazily against one of the many metal pillars in the space, a brightly-colored snack bag in hand, his bulky form swamped by what Wanda thinks are meant to be pajamas—a navy-blue XXL-sized sweatshirt from… Lancaster Country Day (?) and a worn old pair of grey joggers littered with food stains, his tan feet bare upon the polished floors. 

“Yes, Thor, we’re going to do that,” Steve tells him through gritted teeth, clearly beginning to lose his patience (what little was left of it, anyhow, after Wanda catapulted him through the roof). “But first, we need a pl—“

“Oh my God, are we going on a mission? Mr. Stark, this is a mission, isn’t it?” a thin lanky brunette boy that Wanda doesn’t recognize dressed in slim blue jeans and a grey zip-up hoodie starts babbling, brown eyes wide with palpable excitement, nudging an unamused Tony on every word, seemingly oblivious to the stares-slash-glares he’s receiving from everyone else in the room. “Like, a _real_ mission? Oh my God, Ned’s gonna _flip_ , this is _so_ coo—"

“Who the hell is he?” Wanda interrupts sharply (though, admittedly, even she couldn’t help but find the boy _adorable_ , in a Golden-Retriever-puppy kind of way), throwing a glower at an exasperated-looking Tony and pointedly ignoring the slightly hurt look that comes across the teenaged boy’s features at her (admittedly off-putting) brusqueness. 

“Tony’s beloved ward,” Thor chips in with an entertained grin, his words muffled by a mouthful of potato chips from the bag of Lays in his grip—unabashedly, he crunches down a couple more as Wanda watches on with a vague sense of repugnance.

Meanwhile, Tony sputters, then chuckles nervously, scrambling to explain himself, “Okay, _no_ —This is—"

“I’m Peter Parker!” the boy cuts in with untapped enthusiasm, his black high-top Converse squeaking against the floors as he bounds quickly forward to offer his hand for Wanda to shake—after a moment’s hesitation, she takes it, a discontented scowl still marring her features. “Or— _Shoot_. Mr. Stark?” he turns back to Tony, eyes wide and curious—again, entirely oblivious to the tension permeating the room. “Was I supposed to use my made-up name?”

Tony sighs, rubbing tiredly at his temples. “No, kid, you’re doing great.”

“Cool! Thanks, Mr. Stark!” he calls back, waving ecstatically back at his mentor (Tony returns it with a half-hearted thumbs-up)—then, he’s turning back to Wanda with a blinding grin. “I’m gonna tell you my made-up name anyways,” he informs her spastically, even despite the marginally perturbed look she’s giving him as he continues speaking. “I’m Spider-man.”

Wanda blinks. “You are what?”

Peter huffs, looking _adorably_ cross with her—but after a moment, his cheery demeanor is back as he launches into an impromptu explanation: “You know, like _pchew, pchew!_ ” he makes animated sound effects as he points his hands (middle and fourth finger curled inwards, the rest extended), palm-upwards, this way and that as if… shooting something? Wanda isn’t sure. “And, like, you know, the whole—"

“Kid!” Tony calls out, thankfully saving Wanda from Peter Parker’s very… spirited re-enactment of his travels around New York City as this supposed ‘Spider-man.’ “We’re trying to plan a rescue mission here.”

“ _Oh!_ ” Peter exclaims, turning back to face Wanda with an apologetic grin. “Sorry, right, I just—Never been one a mission before, so this is _really_ —"

“Kid!” Tony barks for the second time, brows furrowed. 

“Sorry, Mr. Stark! Shutting up now!”

Wanda blinks again, thoroughly mystified, before shifting her gaze towards a grim-faced Steve, a pleading look in her eyes. 

“He is not coming, is he?” she asks offhandedly, gesturing ambiguously towards the boy and ignoring the vaguely offended look she gets from him in return. 

Steve sighs. “We need all the help we can get.”

Wanda clenches her fists, feeling what little patience she had to begin with quickly running out. “It’s _Natasha_.”

Steve opens his mouth to counter that, but an argumentative Tony promptly beats him to it: “Exactly: It’s _Natasha_. Just think about it… Kidnapping any one of us? That’s small potatoes, especially compared to going after the Black Widow.”

Wanda quirks a brow. “Small potato?”

“It’s an expression,” Tony grumbles with a dismissive wave. “Look, the point is: going after Natasha and actually _succeeding?_ You’d have to be beyond skilled to pull that off—we’re gonna need all the help we can get.”

“This is true,” Thor booms unhelpfully, squinting intently into his chip bag (likely in search of more "tasty crisp morsels," as he called them). “I once tried to enter her quarters without knocking beforehand.” He lowers the bag of chips as he speaks, looking contemplatively off into the distance. “She threw many knives at me. And one grenade, as well.”

Bruce gawks, an uncomely noise abruptly escaping his throat that reminds Wanda vaguely of what she imagines a strangled cat would sound like. "A _grenade?_ “

Thor frowns. “Is that not what humans call it?” he questions confusedly, already pulling out a sleek black iPhone (Tony’s Christmas gift to him) from the back pocket of his khaki trousers, presumably to do a Google search for the meaning of the word ‘grenade’ that would inevitably take a great deal longer than necessary, considering the sunny god hadn’t quite yet mastered the art of the Internet (to all their collective chagrin). “In which you pull the pin and—"

“Can we get to the plan, _please?_ " Steve interjects briskly, arms crossed, body tensed. 

“I agree,” Wanda manages to growl, sure her eyes are glowing red from the pure unadulterated _rage_ she’s feeling right now—and by the way Peter Parker is looking at her, like he’s about ready to pee his pants any second, her suspicions are proven correct. 

“Good,” Steve concludes decisively, turning back to the screens with a stern expression. “FRIDAY, do we have any leads yet?”

“I’m afraid not, Captain Rogers. However, there is a disruption in the 24-hour surveillance feed, occurring specifically from 11:01pm last night to 12:09am this morning.”

“What kind of disruption?” Tony questions briskly, approaching the screens with a thoughtful expression. 

“The feed appears to have been looped.”

The crease between Tony’s brows deepens. “Babygirl, that’s not—"

“Should not be possible, I know. Somehow, they bypassed all secure network encryptions without my knowledge to doctor the footage in real time.”

“Son of a _bitch_ ,” Tony mutters to himself, scratching irritatedly at his neatly-trimmed goatee.

“So, we have nothing,” Wanda sums up bitterly, unable to keep the sour indignation from her tone, feeling powerless beyond measure with Natasha out there, alone and hurt and in high-stakes danger—because she wouldn’t tell them not to come if it weren’t _bad_ , bad enough to scare even her to some degree… and Wanda can’t say goodbye to her—not yet. 

(Maybe not ever.)

Tony doesn’t respond to that, just murmurs unintelligibly to himself, eyes darting this way and that as if searching for something—meanwhile, Wanda watches him intently, trying to control the prickles of irritation across her being that have her positively _itching_ to hit something. 

(Preferably the assholes who took Natasha—though, the man who indirectly slaughtered her parents would work just as well.)

“Maybe not,” he reasons eventually, head snapping up to face the rest of them with a wild-eyed look, and Wanda fights the tiny ember of hope beginning to build in her chest at the revelatory expression on Tony’s features. “Natasha has a lot of enemies, yes?”

Wanda nods impatiently, not quite understanding how in the _world_ that helps. 

“Duh,” Sam inputs ever-so-helpfully whilst Steve merely rolls his eyes and Wanda valiantly resists the urge to do the same. 

“Get to the point, Tony,” Steve tells him, vexation evident in his steely tone. 

“The _point_ , Spangles,” Tony retaliates assuredly, “is: How many enemies does she have that can hack FRIDAY?”

Steve sighs heavily. “I don’t kno—"

“None,” he interjects proudly, then stops himself. “Well, there _should_ be none. Except me.” He grins at that, looking annoyingly proud of himself for a second—but, upon seeing Wanda’s burning glower, he scrambles to continue: "Point is, this narrows the search _exponentially_."

“Okay,” Bruce muses from across the room, scratching his chin in thought. “Then, how do we find a Tony-Stark-level super hacker?”

Their heads all swivel back to Tony, who has begun pacing hastily back and forth in the space, head bowed in immersive thought. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t _know?_ " Wanda snarls, and Tony promptly stops his pacing, his head snapping back up, an affronted look on his face. 

“Oh, I’m _sorry_ ,” he snaps back, voice heavily laden with sarcasm. “Do _you_ have an idea, Hermione?”

Wanda glares defiantly back (even though she hasn’t the faintest clue what a ‘Hermione’ is), undeterred by the familiar sensation of scarlet energy beginning to swirl in her palms. “You—"

“Hold on,” Sam intones, head tilted in thought—the glowing red fades from Wanda’s hands. “Do hacks leave a digital trace? Is there any way we could find them that way?”

Instantly, Tony shakes his head to spare Sam a glance, thereby disrupting his intense staring match with Wanda. “Not the good ones—and that’s what this guy is: _good_."

“Wait, I have an idea!” Peter Parker announces jovially, almond-brown irises lighting up with excitement. “Okay, so, at my school there was this whole thing where someone spray-painted a _huge_ penis in the girls’ bathrooms on the second floor,” he jabbered on, clearly undeterred by the skeptical looks being shot his way. “It was actually crazy anatomically correct, and super realistic, which—“

“Why were you in the girls’ bathroom?” Sam questions.

“Well, I, uh—"

“Not important,” Tony asserts. "Get to the point, kid."

A rosy pink flush tinges Peter’s cheeks. “R-Right, so when they were rounding up kids to question for the whole ‘penis’ thing, they started by pulling all the records of kids who’d already been reprimanded for any kind of a special offense, with a special focus on the kids that had already vandalized the schools’ property in the past, ‘c—“

“You’re saying the person we’re looking for might be on international cyber-security watch lists,” Tony finishes for him, elation building in his tone. 

Peter squints. “… Yes?”

“Wait,” Steve interjects, brow furrowed in rumination. “I thought you said this guy was too good to leave a trace.”

“I did. 10 points for Gryffindor,” Tony lauds wittily, and Steve huffs out a sigh. “ _But_ , everyone has to start somewhere, yeah? You aren’t just born good at this stuff, and when you’re in a business that’s as high-risk as cybernetic hacking on international servers, you’re gonna get caught. A lot.” Chocolate-brown eyes alight with enraptured motivation, he turns back to his screens. “FRIDAY, did you catch all th—"

“I’ve compiled a list of all men and women, still living, that were discovered guilty of cyber-technological crimes worldwide in the past 20 years.”

“God, you’re beautiful.”

“Thanks, boss.”

Tony hums. “How long’s this list?”

“Seven hundred and eighty—“

“Oh, that’s not bad.”

“—thousand, nine hundred—“

“Thank you, FRIDAY, that’ll be all,” Tony concedes with a sigh, turning away from the array of brightly-lit screens to fix the rest of them with a dejected look. “We need more.”

“More?” Sam asks. 

“More info, more data, things to narrow the search,” he explains testily, running a hand through his short dark hair with obvious frustration before turning to eye Wanda. “I don’t suppose you saw anything else, during your voodoo-mind-thing?”

Fighting the urge to snap back with something rude (it’s difficult, understandably), she merely shakes her head. “No.”

“We should call Clint,” Bruce suggests, one hand coming up to fiddle with the wire-rimmed glasses atop the bridge of his nose. “Maybe he knows something.”

“Good idea,” Steve lauds him, though it’s hollow—disheartened; a second later, though, he’s giving orders like they’re in the field, his tone stiff and uncompromising, icy-blue eyes sharp and focused: “Sam, Thor, and I will work on getting Clint on the line, even if that means we have to fly there; Tony and Bruce, you guys work with FRIDAY and dig further into this list, see if we can definitively rule out any major groups of people on it; Wanda, you need to get back into Natasha’s head, see if we can find anything that’ll help tell us where she is; and you,” he stops himself at Peter’s hopeful look, his self-righteous demeanor wavering (if only slightly), “you, just, um, go do—well, whatever it is that you do. Okay?”

Tony nods, instantly gesturing for Bruce to come join him, and after a moment’s hesitation, grabs Peter by the shirt collar and tugs him along, too, regardless of the boy’s startled, high-pitched yelp—Wanda, for her part, just grits her teeth but gives Steve a definitive nod before stalking off to somewhere quieter, preferably where she doesn’t have a chance of seeing Tony Stark or Peter Parker or Steve Rogers for a very substantial chunk of time.

⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥

In the end, she finds herself in Natasha’s quarters, sitting cross-legged upon crumpled snow-white sheets atop the unmade bed, golden sunlight streaming generously into the room through the single rectangular window to her right.

She’s not sure that it’s wise, being here—inhaling Natasha’s flowery scent, remembering the precious moments they stole tangled together within these very sheets, longing desperately after a woman who (apparently) has no desire to be saved.

Perhaps it’s not wise, but Wanda needs this—needs this like she needs air to breathe, or sustenance to live, because if she doesn’t, she fears she might just stop existing altogether, and she can’t afford that right now. Not when Natasha’s still out there. 

Regardless, she inhales deeply—in through the nose, out through the mouth. Again, and again—one last-ditch attempt to calm herself, to center her thoughts. 

It doesn’t quite work, but funnily enough, Wanda’s knee-deep desperation does the rest, and sooner than she can blink, she’s there. 

She there in that darkened and musty room, the rusty steel door bolted shut to her left, a metallic scent filling her nostrils, the cement floor cracked and stained with crimson beneath her, the (slightly) loosened restraints around her thighs and ankles (clearly, Natasha has been busy), warm wet blood seeping through the cotton fabric of the tight black tank top she wears— _Don’t_ , Natasha warns her, low and serious, the stern command echoing around in Wanda’s brain.

She doesn’t listen. 

A moment later, she hears something—footsteps. More than one set; three, if Wanda has to guess.

But Natasha’s brain says it’s two, and Wanda believes her. 

There’s a metallic scraping noise as the steel door is unbolted, the abrupt and grating sound more than enough to make Wanda’s skin crawl (though Natasha, of course, remains composed as ever)—a moment later, two shadowy figures are entering, their faces obscured by matching black-knit balaclavas.

One is much slighter in build—a woman, Wanda decides, though her slow realization is only confirming what Natasha has already discerned. She’s not armed, as far as Wanda can tell, but Natasha detects a pistol strapped to the woman's left ankle beneath the matte-black fabric of her pants and another tucked securely into the back of her waistband—Wanda knows she’s right. 

The man is much bulkier, a good six inches taller than the woman (approximately 6’1”, according to Natasha)—he carries a semi-automatic pistol in his hand; additionally, Natasha can see a knife in his belt and another gun strapped to the inside of his right ankle as he approaches, a nearly imperceptible limp to his gait (one that Wanda wouldn’t have the slightest chance of noticing; that’s for sure—but, of course, Natasha does, because Natasha notices _everything_ ). 

Quickly, Natasha ascertains that he’s sustained a long-suffering injury to the left leg, likely (at least) two to three years old (and since healed over), judging by the absentminded but still noticeably uncomfortable way in which he moves. 

“Natalia,” he rumbles, his voice low and grating, thick with an unmistakable Russian accent as he gazes down at her, a coldness in his jade-green eyes that cuts Wanda to the core. “The last Black Widow."

Natasha doesn’t blink, doesn’t flinch. “Now that you’ve gone to all this trouble, tell me—what is it you want?”

The woman steps forward, sea-blue eyes glittering with unabashed cruelty in the meager lighting. “We want you to suffer.” She has a different accent, Wanda notices, which strikes her as odd—Norwegian, according to Natasha. 

“That’s all?” Natasha questions evenly, something treacherously close to amusement dripping from her tone as Wanda fights the potent dread building in her chest.

The man nods, crouching down close to her, his face inches away from hers as he brandishes a single short-bladed knife—his breath stinks of cigarettes and stale beer; it’s as if Wanda can _taste_ his bad intent. 

But Natasha still doesn’t move, doesn’t fight, and Wanda’s panic mounts to astronomical levels. “That is all."

Then, he’s driving the blade swiftly beneath her ribcage (though skillfully avoiding any internal organs, according to Natasha) to match the bloodied wound on her right, the pain white-hot and searing—it only worsens as he grins, twisting the blade deep in her flesh, agony sparking every nerve alight, vision whiting out from—

It’s too much. 

It’s too _much_. 

Natasha barely flinches, the only sign it’s affecting her a slight pained groan—but Wanda can’t handle it, can’t even begin to fathom the excruciating _burn_ of the steel slowly pulling her flesh apart, breaking skin and—

A second later, she’s tumbling unceremoniously back into herself, the familiar room materializing around her as she heaves frantically for a breath of air atop Natasha’s bed, grasping desperately at the sheets in some frenzied attempt to regain control, the phantom pain of Natasha’s unthinkable wounds only just beginning to ebb with every passing moment. 

There’s salty wetness on her cheeks from tears she can’t remember shedding, an ache in her skull that demands to be heard, a yearning so deep in her chest she fears it might rip her apart—it’s too much; it’s too _much_ , and Wanda thinks that this is what dying feels like, miles away from the woman she loves, feeling every shred of her pain as she curls into herself amidst the torturous scent of Natasha, sobbing and gasping for breath atop the sheets, dangerously close to hyperventilating but not quite knowing how to stop it and not quite knowing if she even _cares_ to stop it, because Natasha is out there and hurting and alone, and Wanda doesn’t know what the _hell_ she’s meant to do whilst all of that remains true. 

It’s quite possibly the worst thing she’s ever felt.

⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥

“So, the people who took Natasha are a Norwegian lady and a Russian guy?” Tony questions, nose scrunched in a skeptical expression. 

Wanda agitatedly twists the silver rings upon her fingers, barely managing to keep her temper in check. “Yes.”

“Well, that could be _anyone!_ " Tony exclaims frustratedly, like Wanda doesn’t already know how bloody unhelpful those clues were to begin with—she meets eyes with Sam across the room, a sympathetic expression on his face that does little to quell the righteous anger simmering in her gut. 

“Did you hear that? A Norwegian woman and a Russian man,” Steve’s voice overlaps Tony’s from across the lab, an outdated flip-phone pressed to his ear, the man speaking urgently to someone on the other end (Clint, Wanda assumes). “Right.” A pause. “Mhm.” Another pause, longer this time. “Are you sure?” Wanda’s skin begins to crawl with anticipation and the barest hint of promise, everything within her positively _itching_ to know what Clint is saying even as she forcibly reminds herself not to get her hopes up, knowing very well how badly it’ll hurt when that optimism inevitably proves entirely unfounded. “Okay. Thanks, man—say hi to Laura and the kids for me, okay? Alright. Yeah. We’ll let you know. Okay. Bye."

They watch as Steve lowers the phone from his ear, snapping the device shut to end the call and sliding it into the pocket of his worn jeans like he hasn’t just received what is quite possibly the key to finding Natasha before it’s too late—Wanda has to fight the urge to hex-blast him on the spot, his illustrious status as a beloved national hero be damned. 

“Well?” Tony questions impatiently a second later, and for once, Wanda is inclined to side with the billionaire genius. “What did Legolas say?”

“Legolas?” Peter inquires faintly. “Like, Frodo and the Ring?”

They all ignore him.

Steve turns swiftly back to Tony, gaze narrowed. “Is there a ‘Karina Leonsdóttir’ or a ‘Sergei Alekseeva’ on your list of cyber-tech criminals?”

Tony’s eyes widen. “FRIDAY, did you—"

“No 'Sergei Alekseeva,' but there is a 'Karina Leonsdóttir,'” FRIDAY announces, all of them inching closer to view a rectangular photo of a blonde-haired blue-eyed woman appearing on the centermost screen—shoulder-length hair pulled into a haphazard ponytail, thin lips downturned into a defiant pout, a slim white scar trailing diagonally across her left cheek. “Born in the Netherlands, raised in Flåm, Norway. Arrested on numerous different occasions for class-A felonies, all well within the realm of cybersecurity. Although the subsequent investigation turned up a great deal of incriminating evidence, Leonsdóttir was never convicted.”

Tony frowns. “Why not?”

“Large payments made by Leviathan corporation to Ru—"

“FRIDAY, did you say Leviathan?” Tony asks, shoulders suddenly tensed, a vague note of panic in his typically self-assured voice. 

“I did indeed, boss.”

Tony’s face pales, and apprehension swirls in Wanda’s stomach. 

“Are you sure?” he inquires once more, a hint of unmistakable desperation creeping into his words.

“Yes, boss."

“God _dammit_ ,” Tony hisses, though there’s little anger behind it—fear, mostly, and a feeling of dread fills Wanda’s chest even if she doesn’t quite know what any of it means… because clearly, whatever it is, it’s not good. 

“What?” she manages to question after a moment, her voice hoarse and uncertain. 

Tony doesn’t reply, just begins a new round of rather aggressive pacing, a troubled expression creasing his well-groomed features. 

“Tony, _what?_ ” Steve repeats impatiently before Wanda can ask again—which is probably good, considering she’s about one poorly-placed joke away from another painfully destructive meltdown. 

“Leviathan,” Tony concedes with a heavy sigh. “ _That’s_ what.”

“Isn’t that a book in the bible?” Peter questions. 

Bruce raises a brow, turning marginally to look the boy up and down. “Do you mean Leviticus?”

“Shoot."

Wanda painstakingly resists the urge to explode something—luckily, Thor, of all people, speaks up next, thereby saving Tony (and all the rest of them) from being blasted into next week: “Well, do not leave us in suspense, Tony, son of Howard.” Tony’s eye twitches at the mention of his father, but Wanda’s sure she and Steve are the only ones who catch it. "Who must we defeat to ensure Lady Natasha’s safe return?”

Tony huffs, acute annoyance seeming to pour off of him in waves even as he turns his back to the screens, facing the rest of them with a contemplative expression. “Leviathan is a Soviet espionage and erudition agency, originally founded by Joseph Stalin.”

Bruce frowns at that, a deep furrow creasing his brow. “World War II?”

“Uh-huh."

“What does that have to do with Natasha?” Steve challenges, a steely note to his voice that doesn’t quite match the faraway look in his icy-blue stare—evidently, he’s not enjoying the impromptu trip down Memory Lane.

(Wanda doesn’t blame him.) 

Tony heaves another sigh. “They created the Red Room.”

The effect is immediate: a disconcerting hush settles over the room, a cold sort of dread clenching Wanda’s heart in a vice—it’s as if she can literally _feel_ her worry increasing beyond measure, a thoroughly unbearable ache settling itself into her very bones at the knowledge of who currently has Natasha at their mercy. 

Peter squints, breaking the tense stillness with a curious “What’s a ‘Red Room’?” 

Again, they all ignore him.

“How in the _world_ are we gonna go up against the Red Room and _win?_ ” Sam wonders aloud, not quite addressing anyone in particular, and really, Wanda can’t find a reasonable answer to that.

The room is silent for another long moment. 

Eventually, though, Steve manages a curt nods, looking maddeningly put-together and self-righteous—Wanda can practically _see_ a rousing inspirational speech in the process of being formed in his all-American red-blooded brain. “We won’t be going up against the Red Room itself—just Leonsdóttir.”

“And Alekseeva,” Bruce adds helpfully. 

Wanda feels like punching something. 

“Anything from Clint on where they could be?” she asks instead, directing her question towards Steve, desperate to retain some degree of productivity, no matter how small. 

For the first time in a very long time (at least, as far as Wanda knows), Steve Rogers visibly falters in place, swaying slightly on his feet, lips pressed tightly together in a line. “Russia.”

“Of course,” Tony grumbles.

“Kaliningrad, specifically… " Steve trails off uncertainly, scrunching his face up in concentration. “Chelyabinsk, if that one doesn’t pan out.”

Wanda lets out a slow breath, grateful for the new pieces of information, for _something_ that calms the abundance of nervous energy roaming unchecked in her gut, even if it is a temporary fix. “Why Kaliningrad? Or Chelyabinsk?”

“I don’t even know where those _are_ ,” Sam mumbles grumpily to himself, but Wanda ignores him, instead watching a thoughtful-looking Tony with attentive eyes. 

“Are you sure that’s what he said, Spangles?” Tony questions, rubbing idly at his neatly-trimmed beard. "Kaliningrad and Chelya-beans?”

“Chelyabinsk.”

“Whatever.” Tony dismisses the correction with a wave of his hand, clearly growing impatient. “But, are you _sure?_ “

Steve sighs again. “Yes, Tony, I’m sure.”

“Those are both ex-Red-Room-Academy locations… " he murmurs, more to himself than anyone else before whirling back around to appraise the array of lit-up screens. “FRIDAY, can you search that? Is that right?”

“It is, boss—Kaliningrad and Chelyabinsk both had Red Room Academies funded by Leviathan; the Kaliningrad location perished in a chemical fire in late 1970, whilst the Chelyabinsk Academy was disbanded due to rising suspicions of an American spy within the ranks shortly thereafter.”

“Shit,” Sam curses quietly to himself, rubbing at his temples. “How are we supposed to know which one?”

“We could just do Kaliningrad first, and Chelyabinsk second,” Steve offers, but no one seems to be all that keen on taking what is, essentially, the long route—Wanda, especially, thinks she’s ready to fling him into space herself for even daring to suggest it.

Tony, for his part, doesn’t respond, instead deigning to mutter quietly to himself, eyes darting from side to side as if thinking—eventually, he lights up with a vaguely unintelligible sound, an almost wild look in his eye. 

“FRIDAY, hon, what was recovered from the 1970 Kaliningrad fire?”

“Almost nothing, boss.”

“Photos?”

“None."

“Survivor accounts?”

“Scant few, and they vary, as eye-witness accounts so often do—the most reliable ones, however, all have one thing in common: they detail a red-haired woman in black seen fleeing the Academy as it burned, shortly before the chemical explosion that occurred seconds later.”

“Natasha,” Tony concludes, a note of unequivocal finality in his voice.

Steve instantly shakes his head, already stepping forward to argue, “You don’t know that for sure.”

Tony snorts derisively, then turns back to fix Steve with an incredulous look. “Who else?”

“I agree with Stark,” Wanda voices simply, rolling her eyes as Tony’s brows shoot towards his hairline. “Yes, I am surprised by it, too.”

“See?” Tony points out, gesturing emphatically to Wanda with a single hand. “If Sabrina the Teenaged Witch is on my side, you know either a) I’m right, or b) I’m right.”

Wanda sighs. 

Bruce squints, a dubious look in his eye. “But, those are the same options.”

Tony spins back around, pointing finger-guns at him. “Ex- _actly_ , Hulk-man.” Then, he turns promptly back to Steve, silently pleading with the blonde man to reconsider. “Come _on_ , Capsicle—this has Natasha written all over it.”

“But we don’t know for _sure_.”

Tony rolls his eyes dramatically but heaves a defeated sigh, turning to address everyone in the room. “Okay, how about this: all the people that think _I’m_ right, we’ll get in Quinjet numero uno and book it to Kaliningrad. All the people who think I might be wrong, you all will get in Quinjet numero _dos_ , and fly on over to Chelyabinsk. Good?”

Sam shrugs, giving a nod; Bruce sighs and bobs his head up and down in a weary sign of agreement; Wanda gifts Tony the slightest hint of a smirk, letting him know she’s in; Peter bounces energetically on the balls of his feet with a ridiculously wide grin, making it painfully obvious to everyone in the room where exactly he stands in all this; Thor just hums, scrolling through his Instagram feed, likely entirely oblivious to the ongoing vote he’s meant to be engaging in; Steve, meanwhile, works his jaw in frustration, clearly miffed—but, at the end of it, he can’t quite seem to come up with a reasonable counter to Tony’s plan. 

After a long moment, he heaves a sigh. “Fine.”

Humming contentedly to himself, Tony clasps his hands together, a satisfied grin on his face. “Wonderful! Now, let’s figure out the teams.”

“This isn’t a game of dodgeball, Tony.”

“Shut it, Spangles."

⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tony calling all the rest of the avengers funny names for his own amusement gives me liFE


	2. familiar faces: natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Natasha's end of things, it's not pretty—but, she's working on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still super into this story at the moment so i might have it done sooner than i thought?? but also might not hahaha
> 
> anyways
> 
> new update:)

Natasha clenches her jaw tightly despite the overwhelming sensations of merciless pain wracking her beaten body, mentally taking note of the relative time (10:00am, maybe)—the room around her isn’t nearly as pitch-black as it had been hours ago, an impartial (though admittedly dim) light allowing her to see something more than the faint silhouette of her bloodied limbs twisted precariously beneath her, the amount of viscous red blood pooling beneath her an almost dizzying sight to witness.

A lesser woman might faint at the sight, at the isolation, at the _pain_ —but, Natasha has trained over the span of several lifetimes for exactly this; she is no 'lesser woman.'

She’ll concede, though, that yes, perhaps she _is_ a bit softer around the edges, now; perhaps she’s grown somewhat complacent under the tantalizing disillusionment of hero-hood, within the bonds she's formed amongst Steve and Tony and Sam and all the rest of them that feel as dangerously close to ‘family’ as she’s ever had, beneath _Wanda_.

She’s weaker, now—that much is undeniable. 

But, beneath it all—beneath the lives she’s saved, and the warmth that blooms within her chest under Wanda’s feather-light touch, and even the sordid fantasy she’s allowed herself to indulge in of being a ‘hero’ to the world, she is no more than a deadly weapon, disguised cleverly behind pretty lies and sultry smirks… just as they made her to be. 

No matter how skillfully she adapts, or how relentlessly she chases after some modicum of redemption (as if she doesn’t already know she won’t ever get it), she’s still the scared little girl who obediently choked the life out of each and every other child she’d once called ‘friend’ upon the floors of the Red Room Academy under the cold blue-eyed gaze of Madame B.; she’s still the soulless teenager who batted her eyelids flirtatiously towards sleazy businessmen at least 50 years her senior, only to slit her trusty knife smoothly through each man’s wrinkled throat, severing the carotid with ease after they'd coaxed her back to a private room for the chance to use her taut young body; she’s still the same jaded Widow who can’t remember how many she’s killed, who hoards what scant traces of misguided love she receives even though she knows damn well she’s the last person to be deserving of such a thing, whose crimson-stained ledger drips and pours rivulets of innocent blood in a powerful scarlet-red flow of meaningless carnage that Natasha fears might never end.

She’s still the same monster she’s always been—just as clever, just as cunning, just as deceitful. 

She knows it’s Karina Leonsdóttir who has her—well, Katerina Lehn, as Natasha had once known her (which, as far as cover names go, that one wasn’t terribly creative). 

(Then again, that’s coming from the former Natalie Rushman, assistant to Pepper Potts at Stark Industries—pot, kettle, etc.)

They’d crossed paths more than once during Natasha’s days of employment under the Red Room Academy, though Katerina had never trained with Natalia, had never been a Widow. 

Instead, as far as Natalia could tell, Katerina Lehn was little more than a duplicitous criminal who specialized in stealing foreign cyber-technology and hacking international networks—though, admittedly, in the late 1960’s, that particular skillset was something entirely unheard of, considering that the first personal computer kits wouldn’t become available to the public until roughly 1975.

So, Katerina was not a Widow, not like Natalia—but they did work together on occasion, whether directly or indirectly. For the most part, Natalia would steal files, or passcode, or thumbprints; Katerina would then utilize Natalia's findings in the process of hacking whichever major international conglomeration of the week that had made the sordid mistake of pissing off the formidable Soviet Union in their dealings. 

Later on, Natasha would find that while Karina Leonsdóttir never officially worked under the Red Room conglomeration itself, she did, in fact, work for the Red Room’s benefactor: Leviathan. It made sense, really—because, through it all, Natalia and Karina had always been on the same side, their end goals more or less intertwined with one another’s (whether they knew it or not). 

For years since the day she left, Natasha had kept a cursory eye on Leonsdóttir—tracking what scant digital trace the woman left throughout her travels (though understandably, it was quite difficult and not at all a trustworthy method of tracking), sifting through headlines in the news that fit her distinct methodology (though, like Natasha, she continued to evolve throughout the years, her trail perpetually taking on a different shape that only further widened the frustratingly broad search parameters), digging up all records of underground activity on the woman’s known allies throughout Eurasia. 

They were about the same age when they met (even if Natasha had never truly known her birthday) in November of 1965—nothing more than teenagers, 18 or 19 years old. And whilst Natasha didn’t age in a linear sense (the prototype-bootleg serum flowing through her veins ensured that), Karina had seemed human—un-inhanced. By Natasha’s math, she should be 70 years of age by now, if not older.

But she’s not, obviously, which Natasha can remember clear as day (given that the stuffy darkened space is now empty save for a bleeding and wounded Natasha)—even under the black balaclava and baggy-fitted clothes she wore. 

There were no wrinkles beneath those familiar icy-blue eyes; her light-footed (though untrained) pattern of movement hadn’t deteriorated in the slightest since the ‘70s; and, she moved as if entirely unbothered by the inherent strain of time upon the human body—so, she had enhanced healing, as well, Natasha concluded. 

For a moment, Natasha takes the time to wonder if she still has that scar across her left cheek, the one Natasha gave her the day she ran in 1970—the day she left the Kaliningrad Academy burning in her wake and her life in shambles behind her and a screaming Katerina bleeding on the steps of the nearest hospital. 

Because, in truth, it’s not impossible for people like Natasha to scar—she’s no Steve Rogers (because, fortunately for him, he got the scientist who actually knew what he was doing when he played doctor with super-powered serums and a fragile human body in some grandiose attempt to create immortality), and she has an ugly scar above her left hipbone (courtesy of the Winter Soldier) to prove it.

It’s not impossible, but it’s hard—and Natasha doesn’t have a clue whether or not Katerina had been enhanced yet during the years in which they knew each other. 

Either way, she supposes it doesn’t quite matter now—none of it does. All that matters is that Katerina’s very much alive, not to mention angry, and she’s brought backup—whoever her Russian friend is supposed to be.

Shaking herself abruptly out of her thoughts, she does a quick mental scan, cataloguing her injuries: neat stab wound (about three hours old) beneath her right ribcage, a distinctly less neat one under her left that bleeds freely down her front even as she braces her elbow (her hands now successfully freed from their bindings) against the laceration in a somewhat slapdash attempt to stop the flow of blood. 

There’s a steady white-hot ache throbbing painfully beneath each fingernail, and a horrible burning in her lungs that makes breathing increasingly difficult where Leonsdóttir and her friend went back to Torture 101 (needles beneath the fingernails, waterboarding—the works) just for the fun of it. Lines of tattered flesh line her wrists and forearms where the barbed-wire-bindings got the best of her, and, as she stands unsteadily upon bare feet within the musty space, she feels a bitter weakness rising up her left calf, which tells her she’d likely severed her posterior tibial artery at one point or another in the painstaking process of freeing her legs and ankles. 

All in all, it’s nothing if not manageable—she has a slight sprain in her right ankle where Leonsdóttir’s excitable Russian friend stepped _hard_ upon her bare instep with the sole of his large black boot, but beyond that, all bones appear to be intact, all limbs in working order. 

She’s not exactly dressed for the occasion, unfortunately—but, in black skin-tight leggings and a form-fitting red tank top, it certainly could be a hell of a lot worse. 

She uses her teeth and hands to pull a roughly inch-and-a-half-long strip of fabric from the hem of her tank (leaving a blood-stained portion of once-pale skin exposed above her waistband), then bends down to secure it tightly around the deepest nick to her posterior tibial artery just above her ankle, exhaling sharply through gritted teeth as the strain of it sends another dizzying wave of pain throughout her body—it’s not perfect, but it’ll have to do. 

Then, more or less satisfied with her improvised first-aid, she silently crosses the room with delicate but quick steps, a length of bloodied chain held tightly in her grip—there, she slides just next to the bolted door, its rusty hinges mere inches from her bare shoulder in the darkness… and, she waits. 

Pain throbs steadily throughout her body and she can feel her limbs weakening from blood loss—but, most of all, she thinks of Wanda. She thinks of the witch’s gorgeous smile, the twinkle in those enthralling blue-green eyes, about how _warm_ she felt when they'd kissed for the very first time and she felt like nothing could harm her, not as long as Wanda’s lips were locked with hers and everything felt right with the world. 

Lastly, she prays that Wanda isn’t coming after her—prays that she’s back at the Tower, that Steve didn’t let her leave, that she’s not about to charge headfirst into a long-suffering battle that even Natasha isn’t quite sure she can win.

(Maybe it’s merely a distasteful side-effect of growing soft, but Natasha doesn’t much care about the rest of it—not the pain, not the remembering, not the dying. Just Wanda. 

As far as she’s concerned, she’s lived a longer—and _better_ —life than she ever deserved to begin with.)

Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ

It goes… well, it certainly could’ve gone better, Natasha thinks. 

She'd incapacitated Karina first—a well-placed kick to the knee and the two-inch steel door colliding _hard_ with her balaclava-covered head had her out cold in seconds, crumpling inelegantly to the floor, a pained moan escaping her during her unceremonious descent. 

Then came her friend—the large bulky Russian man with green eyes just a shade darker than Natasha’s… and, because the universe just hated making things even the slightest bit simple for Natasha, he couldn’t be just a normal ‘roided-out asshole with bigger biceps than brains—he _had_ to be enhanced. 

Natasha had suspected as much from one of their earlier interactions, when she’d had her fun taunting them with halfhearted insults and subtle jabs in a rather old-school ploy to observe their subsequent reactions—there was a perpetual dizziness in her skull, and a biting pain throbbing throughout her body all the while, but she could’ve _sworn_ she’d seen the Russian man’s eyes flash a steely silver for the briefest of moments before quickly fading back to their natural verdant. 

Well, clearly, she’d been right—because, there he was, bright green eyes taking on a lurid silver, his clenched fists taking on a metallic quality even as the rest of his body (what little of it Natasha could see) remained unchanged. 

Lucky for her, he was a clumsy fighter—she dodged the majority of his swinging punches, landing a few hits upon his torso in between (the slight give of muscled flesh beneath her blows only confirmed her suspicions—only his hands were hardened steel), refusing to flinch when she was forced to block his hits rather than dodge as the blunt metal of his hands had her bones trembling under the weight of each impact. 

But, still, he was well-rested and uninjured—Natasha was not. 

She'd barely gained the momentum to propel her head to the right when she felt a steely punch from the left glancing _hard_ against the edge of her jaw—even with her substantial give, her split-second decision to run _with_ the punch rather than against it (which would more than likely result in a broken jaw), the hit still had black spots dancing in her vision, her balance wavering dangerously as she staggered blindly backwards trying to right herself. 

She tracked him in her blurred vision as he followed her retreat, her jaw burning with the memory of his punch, her right hand tightening around the bloodied length of chain in her grip—seconds later, she was maneuvering herself up into the air and onto his back, the chain wrapped tightly around the thickness of his neck, both her hands pulling tightly even as two steel fists attempted to crush whichever part of her they could reach. 

He broke her pinky, and managed another nearly-bone-breaking blow to her right cheekbone in his struggle, but she remained firm, gritting her teeth and pulling harder until eventually, he fell limply to his knees, weakened breaths escaping him with every desperate attempt to breathe, the silvery sheen fading from his hands as they scrabbled weakly for purchase around the short chain digging deeply into his windpipe. 

After unmasking and stripping them both for weapons (and borrowing Karina’s shoes and socks along with her long-sleeved black shirt to hide her wounds), she’d debated killing them, had held the muzzle of Karina’s Tokarev pistol to the flushed pale skin of Leónsdottir's temple, had pressed the sharpened four-inch blade of the man’s knife to the almost hypnotic beating pulse of his carotid—and, she hadn’t done it. She’d been ready to, had felt the anger simmering low in her gut, the aching familiarity of a surefire kill just beneath her fingertips, the thrill of morbid apprehension building in her chest—and, she hadn’t. Because of _Wanda_.

Wanda, who often refused to utilize her powers for fear of hurting those around her; Wanda, who cried silently in Natasha’s arms over the building she toppled in Lagos and the people who died when it fell— _Wanda_ , who Natasha couldn’t help but try and be better for even at that moment, even without her there, even with borderline unbearable pain raging throughout her body and the tantalizing promise of a kill within reach and the sinking feeling in her gut that told her she wasn’t ever going back to the Tower, back to the Avengers, back to _Wanda_.

Even with all of that, she hadn’t done it—instead, she’d simply left, soundless and undetectable, out the abandoned building and onto the mellowed streets of Kaliningrad (the smell of sea salt and water filling her nostrils, the sound of waves from the Baltic off in the distance a soothing rhythm in her ears), already formulating a plan to reach the safe house she’d set up with Clint just west of Kaliningrad in Gdańsk, a fairly populated city along the northern coast of Poland. 

She knew it’d be something of a miracle if she managed to get straight through Elbląg to Gdańsk without confrontation—Karina was smart, yes, but she was sloppy, as well. She wasn’t trained like Natasha was… like the Red Room was. 

She knew very well that Karina and her enhanced friend were no longer the issue—no, it was simply a matter of time before her old enemies came looking, before they tracked the non-existent trace of her to hell and back, before they came along wherever she landed to make Natasha’s bad day a hell of a lot worse. 

Again, she prayed that Steve hadn’t let Wanda come after her—or, worse, that he hadn't joined her in a downright foolhardy search for Natasha. God, they were stubborn. 

Idly, she made a mental note to give them a call on her way through Elbląg—she didn’t trust that they hadn’t gathered together the merry band of super-powered do-gooders on an almost laughably predictable field trip to go save their friend from the Big Bad Russians… family was weird like that, she supposed.

Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ

“Доброе утро,” comes Tony’s self-assured voice, static-y and muffled over the payphone line, his attempt at Russian horrifically Americanized and overall poor at best—Natasha rolls her eyes, eyeing the sea-blue skies above with reluctant bemusement. 

“I gave this phone to Steve.”

“I might've stolen it.”

“Of course you did,” she quips, a smile quirking at her lips despite herself. “I just wanted to call, make sure you weren’t doing anything stupid.”

“Is that her?” a muted voice calls, barely audible to Natasha on the other end—but she recognizes it anyways: the heavy accent, the crestfallen worry seeping into each word, the _adorable_ way the English words sound rolling off her tongue… it’s Wanda, she knows, and that realization hits her like a sucker punch to the gut.

“Your girlfriend’s worried,” Tony informs her jovially instead of answering the unspoken question, and Natasha withholds a sigh (even if a prickle of warmth penetrates her chest at the thought of Wanda, alive and safe and _worried_ for Natasha even if she doesn’t need to be). 

“Stark, _tell me_ you aren’t doing anything stupid.”

Tony’s quiet for a moment. “Stupid, like, as in, flying over to Kaliningrad on the Quinjet to come get you? Like, that kind of stupid?”

Natasha bites her lip, pinching the bridge of her nose, slowly exhaling through her nostrils. “You’re all idiots.”

“Why, Anastasia, ‘cause we care?”

“No, because I’m not _there_ anymore,” she replies quietly, wincing to herself at the unsolicited reveal of information—but, this is what family does, she knows, even if it makes her uncomfortable: they share. 

(Though, Natasha thinks Tony wouldn’t know 'sharing’ if it punched him squarely in the face and stole his favorite Iron Man suit… but, whatever.)

“Great!” Tony exclaims, then turns away for a second to yell, _“She got away!”_ to Wanda and the rest of them waiting on the Quinjet, causing a quiet snort to escape Natasha even as her skin crawls—she knows she needs to end the call soon. “So, we can meet back at the Tower?”

The slight amusement fades from Natasha’s features. “No, I… I still have some unfinished business here.”

Tony hums, though she can sense the annoyance in it. “Okay, great. We’ll come help. Where is ‘here’ exactly?”

She fights the urge to roll her eyes. “Don’t come after me.”

“You know I don’t like following orders.”

“Yeah, well, follow this one.”

“You’re funny.”

“I have to go. Fly back to New York, Tony. Please.” 

With that, she hangs up, unwilling to hear out another moment of Tony trying to convince her to accept their help—she doesn’t have the energy, and most importantly, she doesn’t have the time: the train station is three blocks to the east, and there’s a man in all-black that she thinks she just might recognize stalking purposefully towards the phone booth with a crooked scowl on his face and a semi-automatic gun poorly concealed beneath his bulky jacket. 

Deftly slipping out of the phone booth, she only barely makes it to cover rolling behind a wooden bench before the sound of automatic gunfire reverberates throughout the square, people screaming and debris flying with the spray of bullets, a murmured curse in Russian escaping her as she shifts upon the cobblestone sidewalk, sliding Karina’s handgun from her waistband and checking the magazine: six bullets—seven, counting the one in the chamber. 

_Click!_ She loads the mag, grip tightening around the handle, finger resting intently on the trigger. 

_Here goes nothing_. 

Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ

She kills this time—though, only because she has to. 

She times a swift roll over to the red-painted newspaper dispenser and crouches there as bullets clang against the metal, as utter chaos surrounds her—and, after a brief moment, she realizes who’s after her. 

She doesn’t know his name, but she knows his face—the darkened brown of his irises, the thinness of his pale lips, the slight bend in his long nose where (she assumed) he’d broken it at one point or another. 

She’d seen him a handful of different times in the Red Room—another of their experiments, much like unto the Winter Soldier, brainwashed and beaten, programmed intensively with trigger words and dog-like obedience. He never recognized her when he came 'round, and she never expected him to—she knew the protocol: how often they wiped what little remained in his fractured memory, how meticulously they’d instilled within him the poisonous art of forgetting. 

She supposes it helps, in a way—what he is, what he’s become. It helps because he isn’t swift, and he’s not trying to be—rather, he has a mission: to neutralize his target in a hail of gunfire. If he dies, so be it. If he lives, he won’t remember long enough to be glad about it.

So, he doesn’t cease firing as he approaches, only stops for the space of a second or two to reload his weapon, then continues raining down a relentless spray of bullets where Natasha remains crouched behind her makeshift cover, hiding in wait. 

When he approaches the news dispenser, finally allowing his finger to rest from the trigger as he unceremoniously kicks the metal bullet-ridden box to the side, he hesitates when he finds nothing; he hesitates, and Natasha strikes with a bullet to the skull, silent and swift—he never had the chance to see it coming.

It’s a bizarre thing, she thinks as she watches a single droplet of crimson trail from the bullet hole between his brows, frightened civilians gawking and whispering to one another in Polish from afar—she doesn’t feel grief, per se, or anything close to it, really. 

Rather, there’s merely a moment that grabs her—a sort of bitter understanding that pulls from within her chest, swift and almost painful in its brevity; she shuts his eyelids with slightly trembling fingers, ignores the blood that smears across her fingertips as she does—and then she’s gone, as quickly as she’d arrived, strolling quickly down the street, pistol again hidden securely in the elastic of her waistband, using the sleeve of Karina’s black shirt to wipe hastily at the blood spattered across her cheeks. 

After all, she has a train to catch. 

Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> natasha could step on me in red bottom heels and i'd say thank you
> 
> Доброе утро | _Dobroye utro_ | Good morning


	3. the train to gdánsk: wanda & natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things on the Quinjet get a little heated. Fast. 
> 
> Meanwhile, on Natasha's end, they aren't looking all that great either. 
> 
> (Honestly, it's difficult to tell which of them got the more unpleasant end of the deal.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short update 'cause we're wrappign this up soon!!! which is nice
> 
> sorry it's taken so long - life's been really crazy, and i'm currently in the middle of orientation for my college 
> 
> so uh please be patient with me!! i haven't forgotten about this story i promise:)

Tony hangs up the phone with a dramatic roll of his eyes before whirling around in place to call out, “FRIDAY, can you please get Spangles and his team of idiots up on the screen,” as he approaches Wanda and Peter standing awkwardly beside one another within the Quinjet’s moderately-sized cargo hold. 

He’s dressed in jeans and a black long-sleeved sweater, brown eyes slightly bloodshot, a slightly manic air radiating off of him; but, he smirks as “Hailing Quinjet 37JF," FRIDAY’s cool voice reverberates throughout the space along with a soft trilling ringtone as the call is placed. 

“Woahhhhh,” Peter Parker gawks at the ceiling with eyes bulging, his lanky (but admittedly toned) form dressed from the neck down in what Wanda presumes to be the ‘Spider-Man’ suit in question. “Mr. Stark, that’s so _cool_ , I—"

“Tony,” comes Steve’s low tone accompanied by his stern face upon the rectangular screen, dirty-blonde hair mussed, sea-blue eyes glinting with steely determination—he has his trademarked stealth suit on, with Sam and Bruce visible over either broad shoulder, and a ridiculously well-muscled blonde-haired lump lying horizontally (not to mention snoring, _loudly_ ) in the background that Wanda presumes to be Thor. 

“ _OhmyGod_ , Captain Am—I mean, Mr. _Rogers!_ ” Peter Parker yelps joyously after whirling around to see the man in question, his eager voice reverberating substantially around the Quinjet’s relatively spacious interior, and Wanda rolls her eyes. 

“It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood,” Tony mutters absentmindedly then, an exasperated look on his features, which, _Huh?_

Steve, meanwhile, appears the slightest bit taken aback by the boy’s enthusiasm: sea-blue eyes marginally widening and his forehead creasing between dirty-blonde brows—but, otherwise, to his credit, he masks it rather well. 

(Well, at least, he does a better job than Wanda—as far as she’s concerned, this ‘Peter Parker’ character remains a complete and utter anomaly.

She has no idea how, or _where_ , Tony managed to find him.)

“Um, right,” Steve coughs out uncomfortably, giving the Spider Boy an awkward wave and a offhanded “Hey, kid,” (that makes Wanda smirk) before returning his self-assured gaze to Tony, features promptly hardening. “You called?”

“What, no flowery greeting for me?” Tony mocks wryly, and, on-screen Steve’s jaw tightens even as Wanda fights the urge to smack herself in the forehead—God, they don’t have _time_ for this. 

“Tell me what you want, T—"

“Hey, Flappy Bird!” Tony calls out grandiosely, bemusement evident in his voice. (Sam just rolls his eyes.) “Brucie! What’s up, big guy?”

Bruce (who looks a tad bedraggled but overall smartly dressed as always) winces slightly at that but gives Tony a short nod and tight smile in acknowledgement. “Hey, Tony.”

Steve looks like he’s a second away from throwing something (and, really, Wanda can’t quite blame him for that). “ _What_ ,” he growls, “do you _want?_ "

(Peter Parker gulps loudly at that, and even Wanda will admit the sight of it sends chills down her spine—silently, she prays that Tony cuts the bullshit, like, _yesterday_ , because the last thing she wants to do right now is witness a full-scale meltdown between self-righteous star-spangled Uncle Steve and billionaire motor-mouthed Metal Man… Especially not when Natasha’s out there, alone, wholeheartedly believing she’s not coming back. 

And, maybe it’s selfish, but Wanda doesn’t accept that—to be perfectly honest, she doesn’t think she _can_.)

“ _Someone’s_ grumpy today,” Tony mumbles loudly to himself, rolling his eyes for dramatic effect. _Christ_ , Wanda thinks.

Steve’s jaw tightens even further (something Wanda would have bet a second ago wasn’t humanly possible, but here they are). “Tony—"

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony swiftly cuts him off with a dismissive wave—and, he’s either oblivious to or just entirely ignoring the rage setting itself ablaze in Steve’s glacial-blue eyes (Wanda would presume the latter), because he continues rambling as if entirely unaffected, lips curled into a minute smirk all the while. “So, here’s the deal-io: our favorite residential homicide-prone spider called from a payphone FRIDAY tracked to Elbląg, a city in Poland along the northern coast, about—" he halts himself for a moment, checking the sleek black band encircling his wrist, “—14 minutes ago,” he remarks proudly, even as Steve’s taut expression borders on murderous. “So, it looks like we’re taking the party to Poland.”

“‘Party’?” Bruce echoes faintly over the line.

“'14 minutes ago’?” Steve repeats, his voice cold with fury, and Wanda sees a wide-eyed Sam exchanging tense looks with a nauseated-looking Bruce behind the super-soldier’s back—yet, still, the smugness upon Tony’s features doesn’t fade. 

(Wanda’s beginning to think he has a death wish.)

“Yep,” Tony replies happily, popping the ‘p’ with glee even as Steve stares him down with a furious glower. 

“Bruce, go input our new coordinates,” Steve orders through gritted teeth, though his glare doesn’t stray from Tony (or, the image of Tony, rather) upon his screen. “For Elb—"

“Ah-ah-ah!” Tony chimes in, arrogance seeming to roll off of him in waves; Wanda feels scarlet energy swirling uncontrollably in her palms, hot and restless and _intense_ , not unlike the unadulterated enmity that’s filling her chest at the current moment. “Not quite—see, while I had the time, I gave our beloved Robin Hood a call. He says there’s a safe house he and Anastasia set up over in G-Ga-Ge—Gudánsk? Dáns—"

“Gdánsk, boss,” come FRIDAY’s cool voice from the overhead speakers, and Tony frowns. 

“Isn’t that what I said?”

“No, boss.”

“Really?”

“Yes, boss.”

“Hmph. Polish words are stupid.”

“… If you say so, bo—"

“Can we focus, please?” Steve interjects, exasperation clear in his tone, and Tony heaves a theatric sigh. 

“I _am_ focusing, Capsicle—in fact, I’m focusing very hard on the pronunciation of this Polish utopia, and, if you had even a _hint_ of respect for international rel—"

_Crash!_ A burst of crimson energy blasts (and nearly incinerates) a smaller expensive-looking gadget mounted just inches to the left of their communications flatscreen, identical crimson luminescence pulsing around Wanda like a god-like aura composed of nothing but pure unmitigated _power_ —she barely hears Peter’s shrieked “Oh, _shit!_ ” or Tony’s annoyed groan as her elevated heartbeat thuds deafeningly in her ears, rage permeating her being until she’s shuddering violently in place with the weight of it, employing every ounce of willpower in her possession to _not_ blow the Quinjet out of the sky mid-flight. 

“Hermione, what the _hell?_ ” Tony shrieks, but Wanda can scarcely hear him (much less internalize what he’s saying)—the communications screen has long since faded to black, taking the image of Steve and Sam and Bruce with it, leaving only the barest traces of grey-and-white static flitting across the darkened monitor. 

Wanda is positively beside herself by now, body thrumming with overwhelming surges of galvanizing _power_ , the world seeming to blur intensely around her until all she can think is _Natasha_ , because, really, truly, it doesn’t seem like much else matters. 

Her powers reach out for her on instinct, for the gorgeous ever-active brain she’s come to know so well over the past couple of months. Natasha’s consciousness crashing into hers like a dynamic jolt of electricity—she feels a lot of things (anger, sadness, cynicism), but most of all she feels an entirely overpowering sensation of _pain_ like a million white-hot pokers separating the flesh beneath her ribcage, a torrent of stinging needles digging beneath the skin of her wrist and forearms, the nerve endings of a phantom crushed finger screaming for reprieve in her left pinky… and, unfortunately, those are just the injuries she can manage to catalogue in her frazzled state of mind; knowing Natasha, it’s probably a hell of a lot worse than Wanda can reasonably comprehend right now. 

But, still, there’s something innately comforting about it—about the way Natasha’s familiar cognizance links so languidly with her own like a bitter nostalgia that has Pietro’s bullet-riddled memory ingrained so deeply within it, recalling his presence like a blanket of warmth even as she knows damn well it won’t be permanent. 

It’s different, obviously, because Natasha’s presence is nearly the polar opposite of Pietro’s—collected and calm where his was unapologetically irreverent, rooted in sadness and unthinkable pain where Pietro’s grief was something inherently shared between the two of them, never stagnant and endlessly complicated where her twin’s was blessedly simple: see something he wants, get it; see someone he dislikes, go over and topple them to the floor.

And yet, there remains an element of comfort in the antithesis of the ‘road less traveled,’ in reaching out through the metaphorical tendrils within her mind to return back to something she knows rather than one she doesn’t, in taking shelter within a habitual place she knows well in her heart is a shielding refuge… so, there’s pain, of course, and confusion and an overwhelming sense of sadness that hits her like a super-powered sucker punch to the gut, but above all else, there’s an intimacy within it all; it’s like coming home, and God, she’s been gone for far too long. 

_Breathe_ , Natasha tells her in that low, rhythmic voice of hers, the soothing sound of it bouncing around in Wanda’s frenzied brain—she still can’t quite focus, and her paramount frustration tears at her insides like the merciless blade a sharpened knife, but something’s changed just the same. She’s not alone anymore, and that precipitous recognition is more than enough to dissolve the lurid red blazing in her eyes, the crackling energy coiling around her fingertips… 

She comes back to herself in a gradual descent, and the very second her feet touch the ground, it’s as if Natasha knows she’s safe again, because the ex-assassin's consciousness terminates itself with disorienting force and Wanda is left feeling cold and alone once again—except, this time, she’s met with a furious Tony and a terrified Peter Parker who looks to be about a handful of moments from shitting his pants (or, his suit, as it were). 

She sighs to herself as she observes Tony’s mouth opening in slow motion, already knowing she’s about to hear amongst the most tangential (not to mention mercurial) reamings of the century.

God, she misses Natasha. 

⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥ ⊥

Bullets are flying, the train is a fiery wreckage behind her on the industrial tracks, and, _Damn her_ , but she misses Wanda. 

Though, if it’s any consolation, she did make it more or less to Gdánsk before her tails came down on her (and the dozens of innocent people unlucky enough to be onboard the train at that time) like the righteous fist of God—they’re somewhere near Przejazdowo, she thinks, on the outskirts of greater metropolitan Gdánsk. 

It’s not ideal, obviously, but it certainly could be worse—not to mention, it’ll probably end better for everyone if she just puts on her big girl panties and faces off with the homicidal pack of morons coming after her in the Przejazdowo village itself rather than deep in the heart of Gdánsk where at least half a million blessedly oblivious civilians reside. 

(Well, ideally she wouldn’t be hunted at _all_ with the clear intent to kill, but, hey—beggars can’t be choosers, right?)

So, the train had been in the midst of a route that ran just south of Przejazdowo when semi-automatic gunfire sounded off from the north, and a well-placed explosive (she thinks it might’ve been a grenade, if not a claymore or subterranean mine) blew out the second carriage with little ceremony—still, the MO isn’t all that telling on its own, and even as Natasha worked swiftly to evacuate all the (relatively) uninjured civilians she could manage before sprinting for cover in a bid to draw the gunfire elsewhere, she couldn’t quite tell just who they were regardless of the signifiant diagnostics running rapidly through her brain in order to suss that distinct detail out. 

Really, she thinks as she dives behind a lone all-white service truck parked in a rather barren field just a couple hundred feet from the _literal_ train wreck in her wake, it all depends on how these particular combatants align themselves, whether as ambassadors of the Red Room (because Natasha’s not stupid, nor is she all that idealistic—she knows damn well that the stunt she pulled in Kaliningrad had little to no stopping effect on the expeditious growth of the academy all throughout Eurasia; rather, it was something of a minor setback, if a ‘setback’ at all) or, if not dispatchers from her childhood abode, then delegates of something else entirely. 

(Truthfully, she can’t quite decide which she’d prefer.)

It’s an 18-wheeler, which is something of a relief, because the bullets are clanging full force against the enclosed rectangular cargo prism just overhead as she crouches just behind the fifth-wheel coupling, and, no matter how smart or subtle she’s known internationally for being, it won’t make a damned difference right now if she can’t figure out a way to use this to her advantage (preferably in a way that doesn’t get her killed). 

God, she _really_ hopes Wanda and Tony and Steve and the rest of them just went back home. 

Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ Φ

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> natasha being an unequivocal badass all day every day is my sexuality

**Author's Note:**

> as always, feedback would be awesome!! also here’s the link to my 


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